


As the Sun Rises

by maravilla



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Not Human, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blood, Blood Donation, Blood Drinking, Car Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Sort Of, Supernatural Elements, Unhappy Ending, blood sucking, expect blood, i guess, it's a vampire AU so, just.....blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 20:01:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13395207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maravilla/pseuds/maravilla
Summary: Spencer can see just the profile of his handsome face, the dim sun shining through the clouds from the aftermath of the storm providing just enough light for Spencer to see him by, here in the relative darkness of the bank at 6 in the morning. The silver of the needle in his arm glints in the light, the dark, thick red of the blood in the tube moving along like the currents in the river after a storm.Spencer can’t smell it through the door but he can hear the softthump-thumpof his heart and he can imagine the warm blood that runs through his veins, can almost taste it on the tip of his tongue. He draws in a sharp breath.





	As the Sun Rises

**Author's Note:**

> lmao if sometime told me i was going to write a criminal minds vampire au in the year 2018 i would not believe them. BUUUUT here we are!!!!! i have had this fic in my mind FOREVER, since i first heard the song _blood bank_ by bon iver. this song has very, very, very little to do with the plot of this fic but it did inspire it. anyway, i couldn't ever settle on what fandom/pairing to write this idea for and during a recent criminal minds re-watch i decided to write it for moreid. despite being a fan of the pairing for a while, i haven't ever actually written them (or any CM fic) before, so sorry if they're OOC, but this fic is self-indulgent anyway.
> 
> this does have a pretty ambiguous/open/vaguely unhappy ending and i DID plan a second part to it (with a happy ending) that i may write if people react to his positively/want that? but i'm pretty sure this fandom/pairing/trope are all on the decline, so.
> 
> anyway, enjoy!

The first time Spencer sees him is on a Thursday, the morning after a storm. It’s late November and thunderstorms have been happening with increasing frequency. Spencer can almost taste the electricity in the air on his tongue, the shocks from the lightning lingering though its flashes had stopped taunting the sky. Drops linger on the trees and the air is thick, and mornings like these are the mornings when Spencer is at his most content. Mornings like these are silent, people stay inside and bemoan the lack of sunshine, the lack of the comfortable temperatures and a slight breeze. It is quiet and still and grey and this is when Spencer likes things best.

The bank is empty at this time of morning too, and that is how Spencer prefers things. He had long gotten over any shame of supplying his diet this way but interacting with other people is not his forte.

That morning, JJ is at the counter, but she’s cool, as far as humans go.

“Good morning, Doctor,” she greets with a smile. “First one in, as always.”

“Good morning, JJ,” Spencer answers, returning her smile with a soft grin of his own. “You know you can call me Spencer. And the early bird gets the worm, as they say. You know, the first record of that phrase in English was actually phrased ‘the early bird catcheth the worm,’ from John Ray’s _Collection of English Proverbs_ published in 1670. That was a translation of ‘ _l’avenir appartient à ceux qui se lèvent tôt_ ,’ ‘the future belongs to those who rise early.’ Which comes from the German, ‘ _Morgenstund hat Gold im Mund_ .’ ‘The morning hours have gold in their mouths.’ And _that_ comes from the Latin, ‘ _Aurora musis amica est_.’ ‘Dawn is a friend of the muses.’”

He appreciates her interested look, at the very least.

“Well, the early bird isn’t catching the worm this morning,” she says apologetically. “Only one O-neg left. There’s never much of it. And a bunch got taken, last night. But I saved that one special, just for you.”

He ducks his head, sure flush is rising on his cheeks. He never did do well with people flirting. Or people being nice in general.

“O-negative is the 4th most common type of blood. But, only 7% of people in the United States have it. That statistic varies by race and ethnicity. Uh – anyway, I’ll take it. Thanks.”

“Sure thing, Doctor,” she returns, getting up from her desk and crossing over to the wall where the board with the daily count was tacked up. She wipes out _1_ under _O-neg human_ and writes in _0,_ and his gaze follows over her head to take a look at what else is available.

“B-positive super?” he questions. “B-positive in humans is the 3rd most common type of blood, but it only accounts for 9% of the US population. For supers, it’s even less. Only 2% of supers that have consumable blood or have blood at all in the United States have B-positive blood.”

“Yeah,” she shrugs. “I don’t know. He’s just started coming in and donating a week or two ago. He’s not part of a program,” she says, referring to the supers that were in prison and had the option of donating to earn a stupidly small amount of money in return.

“Those programs are a sick product of capitalism and a product of mass incarceration. Did you know there are 2.2 million people in jail or prison in the United States? More than any other country. Only 33% of those convicted actually committed violent crimes. Furthermore, 25% of people in prison committed nonviolent, low-level crimes, and would be much better suited to something such as rehabilitation or community service.”

“Mmm,” JJ nods. “It’s a mess. But uh – there he is, actually,” she jerks her head toward one of the donation rooms and Spencer craned his neck to look through the sliver of window in the door. “I’ll just be a second while I grab that for you.”

Spencer can see just the profile of his handsome face, the dim sun shining through the clouds from the aftermath of the storm providing just enough light for Spencer to see him by, here in the relative darkness of the bank at 6 in the morning. The silver of the needle in his arm glints in the light, the dark, thick red of the blood in the tube moving along like the currents in the river after a storm.

Spencer can’t smell it through the door but he can hear the soft _thump-thump_ of his heart and he can imagine the warm blood that runs through his veins, can almost taste it on the tip of his tongue. He draws in a sharp breath.

“Thanks,” he says, hearing JJ return from the cooler with the blood behind him, nodding her way.

“Of course,” she smiles, sliding back behind the desk as he finally tears his gaze away from the man behind the door. “I’ll see you next week.”

“See you next week,” he intones softly, slipping the blood bag into his satchel and walking out the door. The clouds have started to part, and with that the comfortable silence will lift. Spencer hurries to his car, knowing that soon enough the itch would set in; already, his eyes were starting to water. He pulls his hood up.

As he pulls out of the lot, ready to start the quiet ride back to his apartment, he can’t resist a glance back toward the bank, hoping to catch one more look at the man from the donation room.

* * *

 

He sees him again the next Thursday, 6 in the morning again, the last part of his routine before he heads home to bed. Penelope is sitting behind the desk this time, her hair in two buns held up by hot pink scrunchies and her easy smile on her face as the little bell above the door chimes.

“Doctor,” she greets, waving at him as he lowers his hood and takes off his sunglasses.

“You can call me Spencer, Penelope,” he rolls his eyes, but allows a smile to ghost across his face.

“Oh, but that’s not nearly as fun, is it, Doctor?” she winks. “O-neg human, right? Hey, if you want to wait 30 minutes or so, we’re gonna get some B-pos super. You want?” She licks her lips. “Real tasty for you all, isn’t it? Super blood?”

“It’s good, but I’m okay,” Spencer shrugs. “I just…the likelihood of more B-pos super blood being available in the coming weeks is about .5%. Anyway,” he sighs. “O-neg is fine.”

He scrubs his eyes; there are curtains over the window but dawn is breaking and a sliver of sunlight cuts through.

“Sure thing, Doctor,” he hears distantly in the background. He’s too busy following the sunlight with his eyes, watching as it leaks in through the window on the door of the donation room. He’s in there again, the silver needle in the arm, a big vein, and the door is slightly cracked. It’s enough that the smell of the man wafts out, setting under Spencer’s nose and he has to stop himself, for a second. It’s been a long time since he’s felt blood lust like that.

Dimly, he hears a _thump-thump_ of a heartbeat. Penelope comes back with the bag in her hands and he can hear himself thank her and tuck it into his satchel. He sees her wipe off the _8_ and change it to _7._ He feels himself put his hood back up and slip his sunglasses on, but he’s still fixated on the heartbeat thumping away rhythmically in the other room.

* * *

 

When Spencer gets home that morning, he takes the blood bag out of his satchel and throws it in the freezer unceremoniously. He turns the radiator up to 60 degrees _(so the pipes don’t freeze, Dr. Reid, I don’t care if the cold affects you or not,_ his landlord’s voice sounds in his head), and saunters up to bed.

It smells like it might snow, despite the sun shining outside of his blackout curtains. He pulls the covers around him, nestles deep down into them like they’re a cocoon. A protective covering, from the world outside and all the unfairly attractive and mysterious supernaturals that may be in it. He doesn’t have a night class to teach until 6:30pm. He resolutely does not jack off.

* * *

It doesn’t end up snowing, even though the smell lingers all weekend and into the beginning of the week. The sky does go a bit greyer and it stays that way, and Spencer likes that because he can open his curtains. On Wednesday night, Spencer teaches until 9pm. He stays late afterward grading papers and by the time he finishes, it’s nearing 1 in the morning. He could eat. He could definitely eat, and not think about the man from the blood bank while doing it.

He heads home and heats up a cup of blood. It’s not too warm and not too cold just like it would be rushing into his mouth while his fangs are sunk into skin. It’d be right on a vein, the blood pouring as he greedily sucks it all up, every last drop until his hunger is sated. It’s been a long time. He tries to read, fails. He can’t concentrate, he can’t fucking focus on anything but what it’d be like to taste that man’s blood.

Reading has long been a form of escape for him, his ability to read at 20,000 words per minute making it even easier for him to tear through a story, or through facts, to devour and store the information and steadfastly not think about his own life. If he can’t even do something as simple as read, curled up on his couch, alone with his windows open to let in the crisp night air, then something is wrong.

He puts on a terrible movie and sips his cup. At 5 in the morning, he grabs his sunglasses and his jacket and gets in his car.

* * *

No one is in the donation room, but he’s earlier than usual. He’s nearly 45 minutes earlier than usual, only 15 minutes after opening this time, and JJ’s usual grin is hidden by a yawn and a coffee mug.

“Morning, Spence,” she says from behind the desk. “You’re here early. We _just_ opened. I thought you liked to give us an hour to become human again.”

She cracks a smile at her own pun and Spencer raises his eyebrows at her, offering a closed mouth grimace. He’s still disgusted by the way he thought about the man all night. He doesn’t have time for jokes. He doesn’t even comment on the fact that she called him by his first name.

“Well, _I_ thought it was funny,” she rolls her eyes. “Hold on, I’ve got your O-neg,” she says, pushing her chair from the desk and heading back toward the cooler.

“Jayje,” he hears someone call out behind him. Who the hell else could be here this early?

Then it hits him.

Then the smell hits him.

It hits him like a fucking wave, all at once and relentlessly, tumbling over him as if to bury him under where he’d be tossed around on the sand, body slamming onto the ground over and over while he struggles to breathe.

He’s struggling to breathe now, in fact, every inhale bringing the sweet scent up through his nostrils to the point where he feels like his throat is burning. He squeezes his eyes shut, and by sheer force of will, he doesn’t turn around to look at him. Subtly, he brings his hand, cardigan wrapped around it, up to his face to attempt to block out the scent.

It doesn’t work. The fibers of the shirt, the scent of coffee trapped in them, his own distinctive smell, they all hit his nose, but they’re all tinged with the unmistakable metallic scent of blood. And something more – something sweet, alluring, _right._

“Doctor Reid? Spencer?” JJ asked, holding out the bag of blood right in front of his face.

“Oh –” he wiped his mouth, making it look like that’s all he had been doing. “Right. Uh.”

He grabs the bag and holds it up dumbly like he’s not sure what he should do with it.

“You drink it, pretty boy,” comes the voice from behind him, and Spencer involuntarily flinches. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

Spencer’s shoulders hunch in on themselves and he wishes more than anything he could curl himself up in a ball and maybe this man would go away, and he wouldn’t be betrayed by his own olfactory senses and the way the man’s voice curled around the syllables in _pretty boy._

“Um,” he squeaks, hating himself in that moment, hating how his voice comes out. “Yes.”

He shoves the blood bag in his satchel and pulls his hood up while practically slamming his sunglasses on his face, keeping his head down. He can’t get a look at this guy head on. There’s no way he’d be able to handle it.

When Spencer still had friends that were alive, they’d made fun of him for his driving. Said he drove like a grandma, didn’t understand why he drove such a beat up piece of junk.

Today, Spencer speeds 90 down the quiet back road toward his apartment.

He practically inhales a cup of blood when he gets home, anything to get the scent out of his nose, anything to distract his overwhelming instinctual desire to _feed_ welling up in him.

* * *

Spencer goes back at 7am the next Thursday. There’s no way he can go early again, or even at his normal time, and risk facing the man. It’s not _good_ for him. He doesn’t feed. He can’t even remember the last time that he did.

He pushes through door, tired and annoyed, the bell chiming over his head. His bedtime is in 30 minutes and the bank is at least a 20 minute drive from his apartment. He takes some solace in the fact that he can just come in, get the blood, and leave. No need to be distracted. No need at all. Or –

Oh no.

He’s there. He’s in the donation room, the door firmly shut this time, thank god. It doesn’t do much to quell Spencer’s thirst, though. He’s smelled the man’s scent twice now, and he can remember it so clearly, so precisely, and he can imagine the tendrils of his sweet, sweet smell wafting out through the door.

“Good morning, undead wonder boy,” comes Penelope’s voice and he’s jerked out of his reverie. He had been staring. Fuck.

“Spacing out is good for the brain,” Spencer starts, unable to stop the words from spilling from his mouth. “We spend up to 13 percent of the time zoned out. Psychologist Jonathan Smallwood calls this ‘offline mode.’ When, uh, when we go into offline mode, we have almost no idea what is going on around us, and that can be vital to creativity and imaginative thought because when, uh, we have no external stimuli to distract us, we’re able to arrive at ideas much more clearly and straightforwardly.”

Penelope gives him a smile.

“Oh, I don’t think you were spacing out, Doctor,” she winks at him, turning her head to follow his gaze to the donation room. “I think you were looking at Derek. He _is_ quite the Adonis, no?”

Derek. Now he has a name to the face. To the scent.

“No,” says Spencer, but his voice sounds like a lie to his own ears. “I’ve got to go.”

He turns around and walks out of the bank without even getting any blood.

* * *

He has to eat, he tells himself. He goes to the bank once a week so that he can eat a bit each day, and that stops him from ever feeling hunger, and he can ignore his base instincts to feed. He doesn’t _have_ to eat every day, he can actually go quite a while without any blood, but. The itch in his throat, the dry burning sensation gets harder and harder to ignore with every passing day. He considers going back to the bank, but he goes every Thursday. He’s gone every Thursday since he moved here seven years ago and that’s not going to stop _now._

This is ridiculous. He’s a grown adult. There is no reason to break his carefully constructed routine that he’s followed for _years._ Going at 5 and 7 had been enough. Going on a different day is just ridiculous. He has enough self-control to be able to handle this.

By the time finally forces himself into his shoes and out the door, snow has started to fall. Great, fat flakes, slowly flurrying and landing softly upon the ground. They aren’t melting; the snow is starting to pile up. It’s still pretty dark out, the sun still not quite risen and a hint of red sky under the dull dark grey of dawn. He gets into the car a little more forcefully than necessary, jams the key into the ignition, and drives.

By the time he nears the bank, the snow is falling faster and heavier, and his windshield wipers are going at full speed just so he can see through the early storm. His vision is sharp but all that does is increase his ability to see each flake, and it is a wet and gross morning.

He turns off onto the side road that the bank is nestled on and cuts the engine before briefly drumming his fingers on the wheel, nervous. He pushes the feeling in his stomach down and makes himself get out of the car. The cold and the wet may not affect him, but that doesn’t mean he likes it.

He hurries into the bank and is relieved to see JJ at the desk and no sign of anyone in the donation room.

“I was wondering when you’d be here,” she says. “Penelope said you left without actually picking up your blood last week. You’ve got to be starving. Unless you’re cheating on us with another bank?

“No, no, nothing like that,” he answers, slightly breathless, not offering an explanation for why he’d left in such a hurry. His hand grips onto the strap of his satchel to ground himself. “There’s only 3 banks within a 30 mile radius of my apartment, and this one is only 16. The other two are 25 and 27 miles, respectively.”

“Well, good. We’d hate to see our favorite doctor go. I’ll be right back with your blood. Do you want a to-go cup too? Seriously, Doctor, you’ve got to eat.”

“Sure, sure, that’d be great,” he says gratefully, and rocks back and forth on his heels while he waits for her to return from the cooler.

She comes back a minute or two later, the bag in one hand and a styrofoam cup in the other.

“Here,” she says, holding them both out, and he takes them gratefully. He lifts the cup to his lips and takes an instinctual sniff. It smells good, but it’s not….it’s not _Derek,_ nothing so sweet and enticing as his had been. He downs it all in nearly one gulp; JJ was right, he had been hungry.

He nods his thanks, his mind absently wandering to thoughts of Derek, wondering where he could be. There’s no way...there’s no way he was avoiding him? Or maybe he was, after he’d gone and made an ass out of himself the other week, completely avoiding looking at him and running out of the shop before having even been there for five minutes. And then leaving before he had even gotten any blood. Penelope was a gossip, there’s no way she would have avoided telling him.

“He already came, you know,” she informs him.

“Who?” he asks, playing dumb.

“You know who,” she gives him a teasing smile. “Derek. He was already here. Left about 5 minutes before you came in the door.”

“I don’t know anyone named Derek,” he says. “Thanks for the blood.”

He hurries out the door before she can say anything else.

* * *

The snow is coming down hard by the time he leaves. The sun has nearly completely risen, the last bits of red in the sky fading away and the dull near-white grey of morning taking completely over. His car engine sputters but eventually starts up, and he gratefully steps on the gas pedal. He’d hate to walk home in this.

He starts down the road, going the speed limit this time, a bit slower actually, ignoring the temptation to let his mind wander as he keeps his eyes on the road.

Vaguely, in the distance, he sees a shape. A moving shape. That’s odd. Normally, at this time, at these hours, he’s the only person ambling down this road in his trusty hunk of junk, no one but the endless rows of pine trees and a few birds to keep him company. But the shape is definitely moving. He narrows his eyes.

It’s a person – it’s someone walking, in this snowstorm, slowly making their way down the side of the road.

Spencer hates strangers. Or rather, he hates the idea of the germs strangers could spread, he consistently avoids shaking the hands of people he doesn’t know. But some stronger force is at work, because he finds himself slowing his car down to see if the person needs help, or a ride, or – something.

The person is Derek.

Oh. Oh no.

Before he even knows what he’s doing, he finds himself leaning over his center console to open the door and before he even knows what he’s saying, he’s calling out and offering Derek a ride.

He’s so stupid.

He is _so_ stupid.

* * *

“Thanks,” says Derek awkwardly, and Spencer is so, so aware of his presence. They’re around the same height but he makes Spencer feel small in his seat where his hands are gripped on the wheel so tight that his nails are driving crescents into his palm. He wishes he had a mask, or that it wasn’t snowing and he could open the window, anything to block out the scent from the car. It was like being trapped in a confined space with smoke, it was unavoidable. “After the other week, I thought,” he rests his elbow on the side of the car, leans his head on his hand. “I thought you hated me or something, I don’t know.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“I know,” Derek smiles uneasily. “But you – well, anyway. I’m Derek.”

“Doctor Reid. Spencer,” he grits out, still trying his hardest not to take in the scent.

“My bike,” Derek starts, still awkward, clearly unsure what to offer up when Spencer is so clearly struggling with something as he obstinately looks out the front window. It’s safe driving, if nothing else. “I drive a motorcycle and it’s not good to drive in this weather. So, I walked. I didn’t expect the snow to be coming down this hard.”

“The cold doesn’t bother you?” Spencer asks, taking note of Derek’s jacket. It’s certainly not the type of big winter coat he’d expect someone to wear in this kind of temperature, let alone in a snowstorm and he realizes he’s not exactly sure what kind of supernatural Derek is.

“No,” he says, but that’s all. “But I prefer being in the dry. So thanks, kid.”

He smiles, and it’s gorgeous. Spencer can tell it’s gorgeous just from what he can see in his peripheral vision. He chances a look.

It’s so genuine, and Derek’s eyes are warm and earnest. Spencer wants so, _so_ badly to –

No. He turns back to the road.

“Well, happy to oblige,” he says, and they don’t talk for a while.

In fact, the only noise is coming from the engine. It’s louder than normal, but they’re almost back toward town and the car has made it this many years. Surely, it can make it a few more miles.

* * *

It cannot make it a few more miles. The engine starts spluttering, and Spencer quickly jerks it off the road onto the shoulder so the car can die out of the way of oncoming traffic. Not that there are any cars coming. Not at this time, not in this weather. He’s going to have to walk all the way back to town with Derek. At least the wind will be able to blow Derek’s scent away from him.

Or knowing his luck, blow it to right under his nose.

“I can call a friend to pick us up,” Derek says, and he already has his phone out. He hears Derek murmuring on the phone but he can’t really concentrate on what the man is saying. He’s too busy internally panicking on what he’s going to do, stuck in the car without driving to distract him with this mouthwatering man beside him.

“I can walk,” Spencer offers, when Derek gets off the phone. “Your friend doesn’t have to pick us both up.”

“It’s not a big deal, pretty boy,” and _god,_ Spencer wishes Derek would stop smiling like that. “You don’t have to walk in this. Isn’t that why you picked _me_ up? You didn’t want me walking in this?”

Spencer can’t argue with that.

“What’re the odds of us breaking down in a snowstorm? Luckily, neither of us get cold,” he chuckles.

“1 in 10,321,” Spencer mutters, the statistic rolling off his tongue before he can stop and think that Derek’s question was rhetorical.

“What?” Derek asks, amused. “Is that factual?”

“Yes,” sighs Spencer. “I have an eidetic memory. I remember every fact or statistic I’ve ever read.”

“1 in 10,321, and here I am stuck with you, pretty boy,” Derek grins. “Why did you run out on me in the blood bank the other day?”

Fuck, Spencer had hoped this wouldn’t come up. He doesn’t know how to answer. He shrugs.

“Come on, there had to be a reason. Penelope told me you saw me the week after and bolted without even picking up your blood. Did I do something?”

Maybe it’s the snowstorm, maybe it’s hunger, maybe it’s the absolutely intoxicating scent of Derek settling around him, but he says it.

“You smell too good,” he admits. “You smell...like the best thing I’ve ever smelt. I’ve had super blood before, it’s delicious, but you smell like you were made for me.”

“Really?” Derek questions, intrigued. “What’s that smell like?”

“Just – good,” Spencer can’t think. He can’t give him a description. He just _wants._

“Do you want to try it?”

“Try what?” Spencer breathes. He doesn’t dare say it out loud.

Derek leans in close, his breath ghosting over Spencer’s face. The scent is so thick in the air that Spencer can feel his fangs descending, breaking through his gums for the first time in _years;_ it’s painful and he relishes in it, the pain reminding him that this is real and this is happening.

“Tasting it,” Derek says, and then his lips are on Spencer’s and they’re kissing, lips moving against each other rough and hot and wet.

 _“Yes,”_ Spencer lets out and it’s so raw and instinctual and he can’t stop himself from melting into the kiss and cursing the console between them. He wants to _touch,_ he wants to _feel._

“We should – we should move this to the back,” Derek murmurs, hot breath ghosting over Spencer’s neck. “Want to feel you, pretty boy. Touch you.”

“Can you read minds?” Spencer says back, dazed. Derek gives him a coy look.

“No,” he admits, climbing into the back seat and pulling Spencer over the console, tumbling down onto the beat-up leather and sprawling out, and he looks weirdly at home like that, dark blue t-shirt riding up a little bit to show a toned stomach, arms behind his head, snow falling outside the window while the wind howls and howls. Spencer falls down on top of him, buries his face in the crook of Derek’s neck and drinks it all in. “But I can read _you,”_ Derek finishes, tilting his neck to give Spencer the best access.

“You smell incredible,” Spencer mumbles, “I can’t explain it.”

“Don’t try to, pretty boy,” whispers Derek. “Not everything is facts and numbers. Just _feel.”_

Spencer goes silent at that, starts mouthing kisses on Derek’s neck instead. “I want to taste you,” he says, eyes downcast, his hair sweeping over his brow. “I want, I want –”

“Then do it,” Derek offers, one of his hands lifting from Spencer’s waist to come cradle the back of his head and tangle in his hair. “You’re not going to hurt me, I promise.”

“I haven’t done this in a long time,” Spencer says, and he sounds nervous. “But –”

“It’s fine, baby,” Derek coaxes. “It’s fine.”

He kisses him again, both hands in Spencer’s hair now, breathing hot and hard. He can feel Spencer’s fangs nipping at his bottom lip as their tongues slide in and out of each other’s mouths. Spencer’s hands are twisted in the front of Derek’s shirt and he slowly slides a knee up, nudging Derek back into a sitting position. Derek scoots backward, resting against the cold glass of the window, bringing his hands around to Spencer’s shoulder as Spencer comes to rest in his lap.

“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay, okay.”

He leans down close, his lips touching the warm skin of Derek’s neck which should be cold, so cold in this weather, but it’s warm and he can hear the blood running through the veins beneath it. It’s too much to bear, he can’t hold out any longer. He opens his mouth and lets the tips of his fangs pierce the skin, just a little bit, not enough to draw blood. He moves back suddenly, and it takes everything, _everything,_ to stop himself from sinking them down and guzzling the blood down greedily. He looks at Derek one more time, questioning. His eyes are so clear.

“Spencer,” Derek says, moving an errant lock of hair out of Spencer’s eyes. “I want you to.”

That’s all Spencer needs to move back down to the crook of Derek’s neck, to sink his fangs in, to _drink._ It’s everything he could have possibly imagined and _more,_ it’s intoxicating and enticing and _Derek._

His blood is sweet and thick, and Spencer can’t stop himself from sucking more and more down, feeling it run down his throat and it feels so _good._ It’s nothing like the stuff he gets from the bank; the anonymous donors who taste like nothing versus _this,_ which tastes like somebody literally concocted it just for Spencer.

Spencer has read about this phenomenon happening before, but he never expected it to happen to him. The odds are 1 in 768,934.

“Mmmf,” he hears Derek groan, as he bucks up against Spencer’s groin, and shit, yeah, Spencer is definitely hard. Derek is too. The noise brings him down to reality for a second and he manages to move back from Derek’s neck; the incision closing up right away but blood is still dribbling down the sides of Spencer’s lips.

“Sorry,” he grins sheepishly.

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, pretty boy,” Derek says, and he pulls Spencer back down to kiss him. “How did that taste?”

“Incredible,” Spencer says, ending the word in a moan as Derek rubs against him again.

“Can we – we’re definitely wearing too much clothing for this,” Derek murmurs, pushing at the edge of Spencer’s shirt.

“Yeah,” he breathes, “yeah, take them off, yours too.”

Derek nods, his hands making short work on the buttons of Spencer’s shirt and pulling off his cardigan before he takes off his jacket and peels off his own shirt, his hands flying to his jeans and Spencer following suit.

“You’re a vision, pretty boy,” Derek is staring, and Spencer feels almost self-conscious, although he can’t, not with Derek looking at him like _that._ He pulls his arms around his middle and ducks his head down before looking at Derek from beneath his lashes as he bites his lip. His fangs have retracted themselves now and he rubs his mouth. The intoxicating scent of Derek’s blood still lingers.

Spencer kisses him, because for once, his mouth fails him. Derek is gorgeous and surely he knows that, but he can’t think of the words to say it, he doesn’t know to describe it.

“You’re beautiful,” he mumbles into his mouth, and Derek chuckles kind of sadly, which makes Spencer need to kiss him more. “You are,” he insists.

“Thank you,” he says, moving his hands to Spencer’s hips and Spencer is rubbing up against his leg and both of them are aching for it.

“Can I – can I blow you?” Spencer asks shyly, head already moving downward.

It should be awkward, cramped in the backseat of the car, both men too tall for the seat and their legs are scrunched up; seatbelts digging into Derek’s back. But somehow – it’s not, it feels natural and right, and Derek groans, low and husky.

“Please.”

Derek doesn’t know what he’s expecting – he hardly knows the guy outside of the few interactions they’ve had at the blood bank – but he expects Spencer to be shy and timid. Maybe a little inexperienced. But Spencer sucks dick like he knows _exactly_ what he’s doing, and he licks a stripe up Derek’s shaft, ending it by pursing his lips around the head and _sucks,_ sucks while twisting his hand on the bottom and repeating and repeating.

Derek’s leaking now and Spencer slurps it down greedily and Derek absentmindedly wonders if this tastes as good as his blood does to him.

“You know,” Spencer says, leaning up close to his face, his right hand still fondling Derek’s balls, “it says a lot about you that you’ll let a vampire give you oral sex. You like to, uh, live on the edge.”

“Maybe,” Derek says ominously. “What does it say about me if I want to give said vampire head in return?”

“It says you’re a generous person,” Spencer bites his lip again, and Derek flips them over so Spencer is laying up against the window and Derek grins widely before ducking down and sucking in earnest.

Spencer emits little breathy moans and Derek is egged on by this, it’s so _hot,_ it’s so...cute, really, and he bobs his head up and down on Spencer’s cock while he lets out little _oohs_ and _ahs._

“Don’t come yet, baby,” he says, and Spencer shakes his head.

“Then get in me,” he returns, confident and filled with desire.

“Of course,” Derek says, pulling Spencer up and switching their positions once more. “I have condoms in my wallet. Do you have...anything we can use?”

“Yes,” Spencer admits, crawling over Derek to reach into the glove compartment and pull out a bottle of aloe vera. “I get sunburns easily,” he adds like Derek should’ve figured that out, when Derek cocks an eyebrow. Right. Vampire. “Pure aloe vera is a safe lubricant,” he continues. “Some people find it to be too sticky but I don’t think we really have a choice. It’s water-based so there won’t be any oils to break down the latex of the condom.”

“If you say so, pretty boy,” says Derek, reaching over to grab the bottle and pop it open. He slicks his fingers while sitting up so Spencer can lay down, his head against the door handle under the opposite window; his eyes dark and full of lust. Derek crawls over him and spreads his ass apart, murmuring a quick “ok?” and slowly prodding a finger in after Spencer nods.

“Ahhh,” Spencer breathes, and Derek can feel how tight he is as he instinctively clenches around his finger. He moves it in and out for a bit, exploratory, before bending down to kiss Spencer again, and Spencer relaxes into the kiss, relaxes as a whole, and Derek is able to get another finger in.

They stay like this for a while, kissing, soft and quiet, Spencer’s hands on either side of Derek’s face while Derek has one on steady on Spencer’s left shoulder while the other works in and out of his ass.

“One more?” he mutters, breaking the kiss to let Spencer answer “uh-huh,” before slipping another in.

“Derek?” Spencer questions, and Derek nods, breathes.

“Yeah, baby boy, what is it?” he asks, breathless and overcome with desire, fingers moving in and out of Spencer in quick, jerky movements.

“When you...when you’re in me, can I bite you again?”

 _“Please,”_ he groans; _god,_ it had been so hot the first time and he can’t imagine what it’ll be like this time, this time when he’s in Spencer’s tight and warm ass, gently fucking him.

“I’m ready,” Spencer says quietly, and Derek pulls his fingers out and spreads Spencer apart before positioning himself. Using one hand on Spencer’s hip and keeping the other on his shoulder to steady himself, he eases in, and he’s so overcome with it, his cock encased by Spencer, by all of Spencer, and Spencer’s fangs are on his neck again.

“Oh, _god,”_ he groans, and Spencer makes a noise in the back of his throat while he sucks. Derek can feel his aching and leaking cock up against his stomach. He moves in and out, gripping onto Spencer’s hips to move them in a matching rhythm and before long Spencer’s lips are on his again.

“Derek, if you touch me, I’m going to finish,” he says matter-of-factly. “I know it hasn’t been long, but it’s a natural reaction, and it’s – been a while,” he finishes, seemingly cutting himself off before he goes on a tangent about how orgasming works.

“If you bite me again, I think I will too,” Derek confesses.

“Touch me,” Spencer says, eyes so dark they look almost as if they’re entirely pupil. Derek obliges, wrapping his hand around Spencer’s cock, pumping up and down while Spencer sinks his fangs in, the other side of Derek’s neck this time, and further back. He’s going to have scars and bruises for days, but he kind of likes the idea of carrying around Spencer with him.

Derek can feel Spencer start to finish just before he does and before he knows it Spencer is shooting hot come onto his stomach, moaning as his eyes roll back. Derek follows suit, thrusting once – twice – three times more before he’s coming too and he feels _incredible_ and Spencer clenches around him, feeling the warmth inside of himself.

“Spencer, Spencer,” Derek says, brushing a thumb against his cheek. Spencer lifts his head and looks apologetic, blood running down his mouth and dribbling down his chin onto his chest.

“Sorry,” he says, putting his forehead against Derek’s. “You just – taste like nothing I’ve ever known. I can’t explain it.”

“Don’t try to, pretty boy,” Derek breathes, using his shirt to clean himself up and ignoring Spencer’s protests of how gross that is. “Don’t try to.”

“I’m glad I got to taste you,” he admits with a shy smile, feeling around for his own shirt and pulling it back on, following with his pants. Derek also gets dressed; his friend should be here soon.

“I’m glad you got to taste,” Derek says, pulling Spencer into his lap where he can bury his nose in the crook of his neck and breathe in his scent.

When Derek’s friend finds them, they’re curled up together in the back seat, asleep. Snow is still falling heavily outside the window.

* * *

Spencer wakes up in his own bed, the covers pulled around him just how he likes. He blindly reaches out before he finds his phone on his night stand. It’s 5:06pm. The last thing he remembers is falling asleep on Derek’s chest in the back seat of his car. He can only assume that Derek’s friend picked them up and Derek brought him home; tucked him in. He smiles to himself. His heart bottoms out a bit when he realizes he forgot to get Derek’s number, but it’s not a huge deal. He’ll see him next week at the blood bank. They have a standing date, after all. This is Spencer’s day off. He can relax.

He shuts his eyes and falls into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

The next Thursday, Spencer is buzzing with excitement. He nearly trips out the door on the way to the car. It’s not snowing but there’s a fresh blanket of white atop everything and it’s nice. Calm. Spencer can hear the wind but it’s not loud and it’s not too strong, either. It makes everything seem quiet, in a way.

The drive is pleasant enough; the plows must have come out overnight and gotten to even this back road, and so it doesn’t give Spencer’s car, which had been conveniently towed to his parking spot after his tryst with Derek, too much trouble. He’d taken it to get it repaired immediately after, although a larger part of him was telling him he should probably just buy a new car.

Those thoughts are all pushed out of his mind when he pulls into a parking space at the bank and steps out of his car. All he can think about is how he is going to taste _Derek_ again, sweet, beautiful, kind Derek. He licks his lips as he pushes through the door; he can’t even find it in him to be annoyed by the tinkling of the bell above him.

Penelope is sitting at the desk this time, twirling a pen in her hand as she looks something up on the computer behind the counter.

“Hey there, Doctor Hot Stuff,” she says, smiling her usual wide grin. “O-neg human for ya?”

“B-pos super,” Spencer says assertively, grinning in return. He’s had it once and there’s _no way_ he’s not going to have it again, not when there’s literally a supply of it here waiting. Of course, if everything goes according to plan, there’ll be a never-ending supply.

“Oh boy, you’ve got it bad,” Penelope teases, and Spencer doesn’t even bother to deny her. He does blush, but he just ducks his head. He does have it bad. “I’ll be right back,” she says, flouncing toward the cooler.

He lets his gaze slide to the door of the donation room, which is open. But – that’s odd. He would have smelled –

It’s empty. Derek isn’t in there. He checks his watch. It’s Thursday, it’s 6:07 in the morning. Why wouldn’t Derek _be_ there?

“Here you go, undead wonder boy, thank me, for I am your goddess providing you with rich nutrients from a sexy supernatural man,” Penelope jokes, but Spencer is too busy looking toward the donation room. “Hey, earth to wonder boy? Doctor?”

“Huh?” Spencer finally jerks his gaze back to meet Penelope’s, and he reaches out to grab the blood bag on autopilot.

“Oh,” says Penelope, following where Spencer’s gaze had lingered. “You missed him. He was here yesterday. He said he was going to be busy this morning.”

“Oh,” is all Spencer says in return, his hands clutches around the bag like a lifeline. “Yes, I’m – I’m sure he’s busy.”

He hurries out the door, the bag still clutched in his hands. When he goes home, he puts it in the refrigerator and doesn’t touch it. He doesn’t think about Derek. He goes to sleep.

* * *

Spencer is able to spend the week distracting himself, he volunteers to cover a colleague’s lecture, he reads, he watches a few more terrible movies. Derek was busy, that’s what Penelope had said. He’d see him tomorrow and they’d exchange contact information and this wouldn’t be an issue again. He doesn’t touch the bag of Derek’s blood, though. He can’t. He’s starving, but he’ll eat tomorrow. When he knows. When he’s sure. Until then, he’ll be fine.

* * *

Derek isn’t there.

* * *

“I haven’t seen him since last week,” JJ admits reluctantly. “We still have a few bags of his blood left, if you want them.”

He nods, he’s not sure what else to do. “And an O-neg please,” he adds.

He stacks the bags of Derek’s blood in the freezer and throws the O-neg on the counter to warm up. He can’t drink Derek’s blood. Not without the real thing. But he’ll see him next week. Maybe he’s sick. He still didn’t know what kind of super Derek was; maybe he could get sick. But he’s not – there’s no way he’s _gone._ There’s no way.

* * *

Derek isn’t there. Spencer leaves without any blood. He comes home, and opens up the freezer, stares at the bags stacked on top of one another. They don’t say his name, they don’t smell. They’re vacuum sealed. But Spencer can imagine it. He takes the bag of Derek’s blood that had been in the refrigerator and places it on top of the pile. He shuts the freezer door.

* * *

Derek isn’t there the week after that. Spencer gets 4 bags of O-negative. He wants to get as many as possible. He doesn’t want to go back at all, and face the empty donation room, the hole where Derek should be. But 4 is the most they’ll let him get. He blames himself for everything.

* * *

After a month, he goes back. It’s JJ behind the desk.

“Still no sign, Spence, I’m sorry,” she says. She calls him Spence. He gets 4 bags and thanks her. The cycle repeats the next month. And the next. And the next.

Spencer does not ever see Derek again.

* * *

On an interstate four states away, under the cover of darkness and only the light of the stars and the moon to guide him, a lone rider on the back of a motorcycle lifts one of his hands from the handlebars to brush over scars on his neck. He blames himself for everything.

* * *

_“Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing, Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness; So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another, Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.”_

_\- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_

**Author's Note:**

> I looooove comments & kudos!!
> 
> Please let me know if you'd be interested in reading a second part (with a happy ending) to this. It explains Derek's backstory much more thoroughly (and you find out what kind of supernatural he is), and Hotch (who is mentioned in this fic, but not by name) makes an appearance.
> 
> ALSO: Reid (being Reid) recites several facts and statistics in this. Some are factual, some are not. I think it's obvious which ones are not because they pertain to being a vampire. If you're interested:  
> [\- Origin of "the early bird gets the worm"](https://idiomation.wordpress.com/2010/05/11/the-early-bird-catches-the-worm/)  
> [\- Mass incarceration stats 1](https://www.prisonpolicy.org/reports/pie2017.html)  
> [\- Mass incarceration stats 2](https://www.sentencingproject.org/criminal-justice-facts/)  
> [\- Blood types 1](https://www.redcrossblood.org/learn-about-blood/blood-types.html)  
> [\- Blood types 2](https://www.livescience.com/36559-common-blood-type-donation.html)  
> [\- Aloe vera as lube...I am not a doctor so you decide if you trust the article](https://www.bustle.com/articles/100506-3-natural-alternatives-to-lube-because-your-household-items-will-help-you-improvise)
> 
> ok cool lol i still can't believe i wrote a criminal minds vampire fic in 2018 but hey i'm having FUN


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